


Zoe's Roanoke Nightmare

by drollicpixie



Category: American Horror Story: Roanoke
Genre: F/M, Mistaken Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 17:00:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8454535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drollicpixie/pseuds/drollicpixie
Summary: What might happen if Zoe Benson (Coven) were sent to the set of Return to Roanoke. Mature. Zoe/Rory





	

A/N - Speculation fic. Though I don't honestly think Zoe will be arriving in Roanoke I thought I would try to imagine a little porn with minor plot fic for the situation. Takes place after episode 6.07 at some undetermined time in the future but still during the blood moon.

Pairing - Zoe/Rory

Tropes - Mistaken Identity

Rating - Mature

Written during nap time when I probably should have been doing something "productive" like laundry. Published unedited from my phone. I apologize for any and all errors.

 

Zoe's Roanoke Nightmare

Someone was playing a fucking joke on her. They had to be. One minute she had been prowling the old house, floorboards creaking, the place stinking of death, and the next a shrill squeal from behind her, a searing pain, and darkness. There was no possible way that she, Zoe Benson, right hand to The Supreme, had just been cleaved open by a pig man carrying a rusty ax. But the twisted heap of meat, blood soaking the dirt, in front of the mob told another story.

How was she still in the house though? How was it possible that she was looking out of the large upper floor window onto a scene out of some hillbilly nightmare? Pitchforks and torches, filthy souls dressed in rags chanting and jeering as they lit her body on fire and danced. Her white blouse, the black knee length skirt, her leather ankle boots, there was no mistaking herself out there. But she was in here.

Zoe shook from head to toe. First Queenie and now her. Felled by lesser beings, ugly, base creatures. The fucking vampires of Los Angeles and now the ghosts of early colonials in North Carolina. She wanted to stomp, to scream.

Fuck, Cordelia. Fuck her for insisting someone check this Roanoke Nightmare thing out finally. Fuck her for convincing Zoe that she was the only one capable of handling herself with these things. Because clearly she was woefully under prepared. She lasted ten minutes in the house. And now she was stuck in it.

But for how long? And how far could she roam? These had been questions The Supreme had wanted answers too. There was magic here but whose?

"Fuck it," she thought, running a hand back and through her hair. Maybe there was a phone. Maybe someone would come when she didn't return to New Orleans at the appointed time. Maybe there would be more to her than just greasy ash on the driveway when they did arrive. And maybe someone could bring her charred barbecued remains back to fucking life then. But nothing was going to happen, get done, if she continued to stand around like some idiot.

Behind her there was a creek, a foot misstepping on a board, alerting her to the presence of someone else in the house. The pig man? Could he even do anything else to her? She doubted it. Another ghost? They had assumed there were dozens. Colonists, victims, but it was all just speculation.

"Hey!" Zoe called, "Who's there?"

The house had a frankly insane history. Just about everyone who had ever lived there, died there. The place was just evil. Some places were like that. Too much bad shit and the house, or whatever it was, would start to take on a life, a mind, of its own. Poisoning residents and spirits alike. But did everyone that died there haunt the place? Or did it have something to do with the blood moon?

And then a squeak, "You know, I can hear you." A door clicked softly to her left. "I'm not here to hurt you!" She rolled her eyes. "I mean, probably. Just show yourself!"

Nothing. Silence. But a dim light shown through the bedroom down the hall. She wandered through the space, past the four poster bed, and out a door just on the other side. And she was in yet another room but this one was wood lined and filled with doors. A closet perhaps.

There was a muffled sound from behind the far door. It sounded like someone crying. Softly. Like they wanted to be alone.

Zoe almost wished she were the one crying, hiding alone in the dark. Why was she even doing this? Trying to help. She could have been at home, in her room up in the attic, tucked away with Kyle warm at her back. But he had been distant recently. They fought when she told him she was going. And maybe she had in fact gone because of him, to get away from him and his moods for awhile. But now she missed him so much. His blonde mess of curls, the scars and seams that ran across his torso, his neck, the way he grunted when he was mad or about to cum. The monster in him. What if she never saw him again? What would she do without him? And what the fuck would he do without her? She hadn't even really said good bye, throwing clothes in a bag and rushing out the door as he yelled after her.

"Hello," she said gently, lips next to the door. "Anyone in there?" and the muffled sobs stopped. There was no sound. Like the person was holding their breath.

Zoe couldn't stand the suspense a moment longer and flung the door open. Weak light spilled into the dark space, button up shirts and jackets, a floral maxi dress hung from the rod and there, beneath them, on the floor, was a man. He glanced up, eyes wide and fearful, red rimmed, his face pale and gaunt.

But Zoe knew that face. Loved that face. "Kyle?" she breathed, relief flooding through her. "Oh, Kyle! I'm so sorry, I never should have left, and oh god, everything is so fucked up now. Fuck," she dropped to her knees before him. "I should have known you would follow me," and without waiting for a reply she flung her arms around his shoulders, let her fingers glide up into the thick hair at the nape of his neck, and pressed her greedy mouth to his.

He tasted like tears, salt, his lips were swollen with it. When he didn't respond to her attentions Zoe slipped forward, climbing into his lap and spreading her legs to trap him between her lithe thighs. "Baby, you're not mad at me are you? Please don't be mad. It's been too much today. Just hold me." And he did. Pulling her close, tight, his nose finding its way into her hair.

Her hips ground down, found him stiffening under her weight. They hadn't been together, fucked, in weeks. He had been giving her the cold shoulder, leaving Zoe desperately lonely for his touch. Only Kyle could make her feel full, complete. And he was the only man she could avoid killing with her cunt.

"I missed you," she whispered, damp lips on the shell of his ear. His finger tips danced up her bare thighs. "You feel so good." And then his lips were on hers again, no longer soft or plaint but demanding, desperate, pleading.

It was hot and frantic. Her wrenching his t-shirt over his head, knocking the clothes above her, hangers squeaking and scraping down the metal bar above them. Him tearing away her panties, fingers plunging into her sopping hole. Two then three, stretching and scissoring, touching every inch of her. Zoe squeaked in surprise and ground down hard on his palm. "Oh god yes, yes," she babbled as her deft little fingers fumbled with the button on his pants and yanked down the zipper freeing his cock. Commando she thought, just like Kyle, and grinned against his ferocious kiss.

"Need you," she moaned. His only reply was a grunt but it was all the permission she needed as he removed his sticky fingers from inside of her, letting them trail along the milky expanse of leg he had exposed when rucking her skirt up.

His thick cock plunged up into her. Fuller, longer, than she remembered it being. She felt stretched to capacity. "Oh god," was all she could say over and over and she bounced on his dick. He said nothing. But Kyle rarely did, still a man of few words. His hands clutched at her though. Gripping her hips with bruising force, dragging her up and down, forward and back, driving her mad as he pounded up inside of her.

If she could be a ghost living in this house forever with Kyle fucking her just like that then life might not be so bad after all. Because it felt so fucking good. After all of that waiting, wondering what was wrong, what she had done, there he was using his cock to make her forget anything had ever been wrong.

She was so near to coming when his finger slipped to her clit. And there was no way to control herself, she bit down on his shoulder, hard, and road out an extended orgasm, her walls fluttering, grasping at him as he seemed to swell even further inside of her, coming with a gush of hot sticky liquid that she felt right at her core. She shuddered on top of him, limp and exhausted, as his lips and tongue worked at the join of her shoulder and neck.

After what felt like an eternity, his cock softening inside of her, Zoe stood on shaking knees, stooping under the hanging clothes and stepping back into the dim light of the room. Her thighs were wet, tacky, with him. "I can feel you running down my leg," she grinned before turning to look through the doorway and into the bedroom beyond. "We have to call, Cordelia. Fuck knows what the hillbilly ghosts did with my phone. Tell me you have yours. Someone cut the lines to the house".

When she turned back expecting to see Kyle smirking up at her, that dark arched brow, she saw he was still tucked in the closet, flaccid cock still out, a confused expression on his face. "Come on," she reached out a hand to tug him up. "We've got to go."

"I," he started, stammered as she helped him to his feet. Kyle pushed his way through the clothes and Zoe saw it. The red hair. The taller, slimmer build. A few more years around his mouth, at the corner of his eyes.

"Kyle," her voice was small, her eyes studying him, her heart hammering against her chest, frozen in place, stuck to the hardwoods beneath her.

"My," his eyes bored into her, pleading, "I'm Rory," he didn't smile though the side of his mouth quirked upward. He looked abashed. And Zoe was suddenly furious.

"Who the fuck are you?" she demanded.

He didn't respond.

"What the fuck," her eyes flashed as she flew at him, fists flailing wildly. His cum was smeared across the tops of her thighs. This stranger. This man who had screwed her even as she called him Kyle, begging him for it.

Hot shame flooded her cheeks making them hot, scorching her. She had been so desperate for Kyle, for someone she loved, for a savior. She had ignored any doubts, pushed aside any questions, and fucked him without further thought.

Her silence had him inching closer. "Are," he paused, cast his gaze around, "are you dead?"

She snapped in return, "Are you?" So angry with him, with herself, with the situation.

"I think so," he sniffed, face crumbling once more.

"Oh god," she groaned in a horrible contrast to only minutes before.

Zoe felt guilty. And she really shouldn't. But she had found him crying in a closet, alone, in a haunted house surrounded by evil colonial spirits. And he was dead. A ghost.

They both were. Fuck.

"Everyone else is gone. Or dead," he told her without prompting. "My wife," he trailed off pitifully.

"You're married," Zoe squawked. It only got worse.

Rory, his auburn hair catching the light, tore his hands through his hair, dropped to his knees, "I don't know," he wailed miserably. "I'm dead. Is my wife a fucking widow? Is she dead too somewhere else?" Probably, Zoe thought but didn't say out loud. "And if she's alive, then she's gone. And I'm here."

She couldn't stop herself. Maybe it was the post-coital euphoria. Or maybe it was some bizarre chemical reaction of his semen infiltrating her uterus. Or maybe it was just one tragic ghost to another. But she felt for him, truly, and stepped forward, standing in front of his bent form and placed a small hand on his stooped shoulder. There was a beat before he nuzzled into her, his wet face pressing into her blouse, snot and tears seeping through to her skin.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled against her, breath hot. Something treacherous and needy blossomed in her stomach, lower, tugging and stirring between her legs. "I was just so lonely. And you were the first person to see me, speak to me," he pleaded, "touch me, in days. I just wanted to feel something."

Fuck. She was stroking his hair. Not as thick as Kyle's but deliciously soft between her fingers as his mouth opened against her, lips moving, his teeth unexpectedly nipping at her.

He had a wife. Zoe had Kyle. She told herself. She couldn't do this.

She was dead. He was dead. They were trapped there. Followed up quickly behind it.

He was fucking hot. And apparently since they were both already dead her murder cunt couldn't kill him.

As Rory's pale hand ghosted up the back of her leg Zoe really considered telling him to knock it the fuck off, but she didn't. Instead she grabbed his hands and pulled him to his feet, his eyes wearily watching her. Before dragging him back, through the door, and toward the overly fanciful bed.

Turning around she gingerly laid herself onto the comforter and waited. Rory smiled, a grin that reminded her painfully of Kyle, or maybe someone else she couldn't place, but either way she shivered slightly, legs spreading as he dropped back down to his knees, disappearing under her black skirt, his tongue skimming along the inside of her thigh.

Fuck.


End file.
